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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495243">And Now I'm Covered in the Colors, Pulled Apart at the Seams</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied'>Sohotthateveryonedied</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(except for the steph and conner parts) BUT STILL, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Asexual Tim Drake, Asexuality Spectrum, Bad Parent Jack Drake, Bisexual Tim Drake, Canonical Character Death, Child Neglect, Death, Demisexual Tim Drake, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Friendship/Love, Gen, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, IF YOU SHIP TIM WITH HIS FAMILY I SHOOT ON SIGHT, Implied Sexual Content, Love, Mental Health Issues, NO FUCKING INCEST, No Incest, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soul Bond, THIS FIC IS MOSTLY GEN, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, Unrequited Love, again not really soulmates but it's not NOT soulmates, but not really, it's like a souls strings thing, like the topic comes up bc tim's not interested ya feel, soul strings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:42:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25495243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate universe in which we gather soul strings as we fall in love, with different colors representing the different kinds of love you experience over time. Tim has loved and lost so many times over the years that, as rare as it is to find someone who actually loves him back, his strings are mangled like barbed wire. What's the point of loving if it only ends in heartache?</p><p>(Or: Tim’s experience with love, a story told in snapshots.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Tim Drake &amp; Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Dick Grayson, Tim Drake &amp; Everyone, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>633</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>And Now I'm Covered in the Colors, Pulled Apart at the Seams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <b>VERY IMPORTANT RULES FOR THIS UNIVERSE:</b>
</p><p>- You get a string when you fall in love with a person (romantically or platonically) enough for it to like, touch your soul. It's the deep kind of love that becomes a part of you, so it gets represented by a colored string tied to one of your fingers.<br/>- <b>The colors are: PINK for romance, BLUE for family, GREEN for friends, and RED for lust.</b><br/>- If the person doesn't love you back, the end of your string lies at their feet and they can't see it because you can only see your own strings.<br/>- Strings can change colors if your love for the person changes, or they can have more than one color in a thread if there are a lot of different emotions happening for that person.<br/>- If you fall out of love, the string loosens and falls off.<br/>- If someone you love dies, the string is cut and you carry the remnant for as long as you continue to love them.<br/>- When someone fakes their death, usually the string breaks anyway because YOU believe they’re dead, and thus so does your soul.<br/>- If someone comes back from the dead, sometimes you feel it and sometimes you don't. It all depends on the person and whether their soul is already in denial about the death being permanent, which is why nobody knows when Jason comes back to life because that was like. A sure thing. (LISTEN THIS IS MY AU SO I CAN MAKE UP WHATEVER LORE I WANT OKAY)</p><p> <br/>P.S. -- This fic is based off some fanart I saw on Tumblr by omgiamwish and knew I had to write about it so <a href="https://omgiamwish.tumblr.com/post/190364187574/timdrakeweek-day-2-soulmate-au-we-gather-soul">FEAST YOUR EYES ON THIS FELLAS</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts with two blue strings looped around his index finger. Tim doesn’t remember when he got them or how they came to be, which leads him to assume that they have simply always been there. Always been a part of him.<br/>
<br/>
And that makes sense because most children grow up loving their parents—they’re the first true bonds they ever make. Tim’s mom and dad may not be the most affectionate parents in the world, always going off on business trips and leaving Tim at home with the nanny, but that’s fine. They’re important people. Tim should be grateful to have parents that he can be proud of, even if it leaves him feeling a little detached in their absence.<br/>
<br/>
The strings themselves start out strong, thick and bold. But the farther from Tim’s body they reach, the thinner they become. By the time he’s ten years old, they’re practically threadbare as they snake to his parents who are completely indifferent to the way Tim’s heart breaks every time he sees the frayed ends lying at their feet, unnoticed.<br/>
<br/>
It is odd that he can’t remember when the strings fell? If Tim didn’t know any better, he’d think they had been that way all his life.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Even when Tim has nothing else, there’s always Dick Grayson.<br/>
<br/>
From that fateful day at the circus, Tim has frequently lain awake at night and imagined what it would be like to have an extra blue string, stretching directly toward the last Flying Grayson. Toward the first (and last) person who made Tim feel <em> seen. </em> And maybe that means he’s selfish because Tim already has a family of his own, which is more than so many others can say. Clearly.<br/>
<br/>
So what if Tim’s parents don’t love him as much as he loves them? He’s grown used to it by now, so he has no logical reason to complain. It’s just the way things are.<br/>
<br/>
Still, when Tim bullies Bruce into making him Robin years later, it injects him with a brand of excitement that he hasn’t felt in years. Finally he has a hold on something bigger than himself, than his empty house, than waiting week after week for his parents to send him a present in the mail the day after his birthday.<br/>
<br/>
It gets even better when Dick<em>—the </em> Dick Grayson, Tim’s role model since the day he met him—takes Tim under his wing, and <em> surely </em> this can’t be Tim’s real life. The fact that he not only meets his hero of ten years, but that he gets to <em> learn </em> under him too? It’s a dream come true. Dick teaches Tim the secrets that make a Robin, what it means to be Batman’s partner, the ins and outs of crime-fighting. Tim absorbs it all like a sponge.<br/>
<br/>
“And if you stay on your toes like this,” Dick says, demonstrating, “you’ll be lighter on your feet and quicker in a fight. Don’t let the bad guys see you motionless, got it?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim nods. “Got it.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick raises his practice staff. “And remember—in a real battle you’ll be wearing your domino, so be mindful of your blind spots. Accommodate for them while keeping yourself on target at the same time.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim adjusts his stance on the mat. “Uh-huh.”<br/>
<br/>
“And don’t be afraid to turn your offense into your defense. Always be prepared to switch it up at a second’s notice in response to your opponent’s moves, so your brain needs to work ten times faster than—”<br/>
<br/>
“Will you just hit me already?”<br/>
<br/>
Dick laughs. “Fine, fine.” He strikes, coming at Tim with a hit that Tim blocks with his own staff.<br/>
<br/>
There’s something about sparring with Dick that gives Tim a sort of insight into the inner workings of Dick Grayson—things that most other people wouldn’t pick up on if they weren’t looking closely. As graceful as Dick is, there’s a strength in him. A secret power that lurks within the acrobat, ready to turn the tides at a moment’s notice. Dick’s plucky, carefree attitude is as much a mask as the domino is, leading enemies into a false sense of security. Dick blocks more often than he strikes and never stays in one spot for longer than a few seconds at a time, as if the floor is lava. It’s a dance.<br/>
<br/>
Tim has almost gained the upper hand of their spar—something that happens so rarely he can count his victories on one hand—when Alfred comes downstairs holding a tray of sandwiches and protein shakes.<br/>
<br/>
While Tim is distracted, Dick knocks Tim’s staff from his grasp and sends it skidding across the floor. He points the end of his own at Tim’s neck. Checkmate. “Most important rule of Robinism: <em> Never </em> take your eyes off of your opponent.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim rolls his eyes, batting aside Dick’s staff and walking over to Alfred. “That’s a made-up word.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m the first Robin and I invented it, which makes it real.” Dick takes a sandwich. “Thanks, Alf.”<br/>
<br/>
“As nauseating as I find your mayonnaise and pickle concoctions, let it never be said that I don’t give you boys what you want.”<br/>
<br/>
And really, Tim’s got to admire Alfred for that. The guy practically had a stroke when Tim confessed that his favorite after-school snack is potato chips dipped in ketchup. Months later and Tim’s got a new blue string on his finger because it’s <em> impossible </em> not to love Alfred, guilt over ruining his faith in the human palate be damned.<br/>
<br/>
At least Dick shares Tim’s love of unconventional food combinations.<br/>
<br/>
Tim bites into his own sandwich, the wonderfully sour taste of picklenaise flooding his mouth. “You’re just jealous that you have weak taste buds.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, that must be it,” Alfred says, wrinkling his nose. As he goes, Tim finds himself wondering about Alfred’s strings. Bruce definitely has one, but what about Thomas and Martha? What about Jason? What about friends from the British military? Is Alfred’s string collection a graveyard of frayed ends?<br/>
<br/>
“I was thinking,” Dick says around a mouthful, diverting Tim’s attention, “I’m heading back to Blüd in a little bit but I’m free all next weekend. The fair is supposed to be in town so maybe you and I could check it out? They’ve got a ferris wheel.”<br/>
<br/>
Miraculously, Tim doesn’t choke. Dick has <em> never </em> invited Tim to spend time together outside of Robin training. In fact, Dick has always been quick to leave with a thrown-together excuse any time he sees Tim in the Robin uniform—in <em> Jason’s </em> uniform.<br/>
<br/>
Tim schools his expression into something remotely casual. He doesn’t think it works. “Really? Just you and me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Sure. I’ll talk to Bruce and see if he can let you off training early on Saturday. We can tell him the carnival games are for aiming practice or something.” He winks.<br/>
<br/>
“Okay. That would—that would be cool.” Tim tries to hide his smile behind a sip from his shake. He shouldn’t be this excited about the smallest gesture, but he can’t help it. Just the fact that Dick acknowledges Tim and treats him like an actual person puts him on a golden pedestal as it is.<br/>
<br/>
Tim tries to ignore the way his string warms on his ring finger, seeking to betray him. Dick’s thread started out green but has slowly shifted to robin’s egg blue over time. Tim is fully aware of how silly it is to care about Dick this deeply like he’s a manic fanboy and Dick is his celebrity crush, but he can’t help it. Dick changed Tim’s life, and for that he will never stop being grateful.<br/>
<br/>
In the back of his mind he’s always wondered if Dick felt the same way, but Tim never lets himself check. He’d rather be ignorant than find a tattered string sitting at Dick’s feet, which is almost definitely the case. Dick barely knows Tim. He doesn’t have the attachment that Tim does, and Tim can live with that. He can.<br/>
<br/>
Besides, it’s probably better than Dick doesn’t return the feeling anyway. Tim would feel bad knowing that he stole yet another spot away from Jason.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t stop worrying. Bruce is somewhere in Haiti trying to save Tim’s parents’ lives, and here Tim is, <em> not </em> doing that. Instead he’s stuck at the manor, waiting for something to happen. A phone call. An email. A news feed detailing success or tragedy. He’s never felt more powerless in his life.<br/>
<br/>
Alfred is puttering around downstairs, giving Tim the space he needs. Tim has been trying for the past hour to distract himself from his anxiety with books, TV, meditation, but he can’t clear his mind enough to do any of the above. He wishes he could sleep.<br/>
<br/>
Tim is passing time by knocking out cases from the FBI’s most wanted list on his computer when he feels it. A sudden buzzing that starts in his fingertips and spreads throughout his entire body, centralized in his left hand. His breath catches in his throat as he’s flooded with an instinctive sense of dread, like his body knows something that his head doesn’t.<br/>
<br/>
Then, faster than Tim can panic, speculate, <em> think—</em>one of the strings on his pinkie breaks and falls away. Just like that. Without warning.<br/>
<br/>
She’s gone.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Bruce comes home that night, tentative for the first time since Tim has known him. Sorrow marrs every line in his face as he approaches Tim with the timidity of a hunter trying not to scare off a fawn. Tim is sure that he’s spent the entire ride here debating how to break the news, but Bruce doesn’t need to say anything.<br/>
<br/>
Tim already knows.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
In the days that follow, Tim moves forward the best he can. He tries to ignore the ache, ignore the fact that he still hasn’t cried over her yet and isn’t that <em> awful? </em> What kind of a son doesn’t cry over his own mother?<br/>
<br/>
All throughout Janet’s funeral Tim tries to summon some kind of emotion, just to remind himself that he’s still human. And he <em> is </em> sad, there’s no denying that, but what does it mean if the thing he’s mourning is a role rather than a person? Tim mourns the loss of a mother, of the possibility that Batman and Robin <em> don’t </em> need to be set in grief. There’s nothing else.<br/>
<br/>
As much as Tim loves his parents, he’s always known that they don’t<em>—didn’t—</em>love him the same way. And he pondered that while growing up. Spent hours running over it in his head, searching for a reason that would explain how someone could mess up so badly that they can’t even get their own <em> parents </em> to love them.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe his lack of grief explains it. Maybe Tim has been tainted from the start.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Ariana doesn’t get a string, even after months of dating.<br/>
<br/>
Tim tries to make it appear. Really, he does. But his damn fingers stay bare, taunting him with the hypothesis that there <em> must </em> be something wrong with him. Is his heart broken? Hell, he’d even take a red string if it would make him feel like less of a jerk. Ariana deserves to have a boyfriend who loves her the way she loves him, but he <em> can’t. </em><br/>
<br/>
And he does <em> want </em> to love Ari. She’s smart, interesting, easy to talk to, so why doesn’t he love her? He thinks he could love her. He’s said it often enough, expecting every time for it to suddenly become true, but there’s still no string.<br/>
<br/>
Tim loves spending time with her, at least. Does that count? He loves hanging out with her, loves hugging her and talking to her about normal things. Is that what love is? Maybe he isn’t doing it right, but Tim would like to <em> learn </em> how to love her. He wants to learn how to love <em> and </em> be loved back; not just one or the other.<br/>
<br/>
Then comes the night when Ariana steps out of her room in a sheer nightgown, and Tim is so startled that he doesn’t stop her when she kisses him. She tells Tim that she loves him and wants to take the next step, wants to show him how much she cares about him. And Tim knows how any <em> other </em> teenage boy would react to such a proposition.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, Tim gently pushes her away and tamps down the ball of panic stuck in his throat. He tries to be as sincere as possible when he tells her that of <em> course </em> he loves her too, regardless of how uncertain he is about the truth behind that statement. He lies and says that sure, he’d love to take that step with her, but they’re both way too young. The second part is a complete truth, at least.<br/>
<br/>
They end up talking it all out. Ari confides in him about the almost-assault that led to her actions tonight, just wanting to feel comfortable in her own skin again. Tim is happy to be a shoulder for her to cry on because at least he <em> knows </em> this. He knows how to do this part and make it real. They hug and agree to wait before taking their relationship any further, and Tim hates how relieved he feels.<br/>
<br/>
Ariana never does get a string.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
If life is a broom closet, then Steph is the lightbulb. Tim would need an entire dictionary to describe her properly, and even then the words wouldn’t do her justice. She is gold and warmth and joy, she’s fire and she’s oxygen and she’s life and she’s sunshine. Tim could drown in her.<br/>
<br/>
He sits across from her at a table in one of Gotham’s more decrepit diners with graffiti on the booths and cigarette stubs littering the floor. Robin and Spoiler are still wearing their uniforms, sweaty and tired from patrol but neither of them cares very much. The diner is empty save for a waitress at the counter and an old drunk finishing off his fifth beer.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re so stupid,” Steph says, shaking her head. She takes a bite of her cheeseburger, having already rolled up her mask, Spider-Man-style. The food here is terrible, but at least they have good milkshakes. A strawberry one with two straws sits between them, topped with extra whipped cream (Steph’s idea) and rainbow sprinkles (Tim’s idea).<br/>
<br/>
<em> “You’re </em> stupid,” Tim retorts.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, yeah? At least I have the sensibility to know that no vigilante is ever going to need <em> shark repellent.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“That’s fine.” Tim shrugs. “Keep your opinions. Just know that next time we’re in a boat together and you’re getting mauled by a shark, I’ll be keeping my shark repellent all to myself. And when everyone at your funeral asks me why I didn’t save my wonderful girlfriend from the shark, I’ll tell them about this conversation and they’ll agree that my actions were just.”<br/>
<br/>
Steph laughs, a snorting sound that should not be as cute as it is. God, she’s beautiful. All blonde hair and flushed cheeks, boldness and charm that makes Tim feel like a Victorian love interest. She’s so full of <em> life </em> that Tim envies her as much as he admires her.<br/>
<br/>
Suddenly Tim feels a weight on his left hand. He looks down to find a new string having looped itself around his pinkie, bright pink and tethering him in a way where it miraculously isn’t an anchor. It feels like helium, like he could soar if he tried. Tim follows the string with his eyes and isn’t surprised to find it charting a direct path to Stephanie.<br/>
<br/>
What <em> does </em> surprise him is seeing that it goes straight to her finger as well. No frayed ends this time. No unrequited feelings, chipping away at Tim’s heart and decaying the part of him that used to believe he was worthy of being loved.<br/>
<br/>
Steph seems to notice it as well, her left hand twitching like something touched her. She looks down and her eyes widen for a second before she looks at Tim’s hand and sees the matching knot.<br/>
<br/>
They don’t say anything, just meet each other’s eyes and smile before going back to their conversation, if a little more giggly. They don’t need to talk about it. This is just a physical representation of something they’ve both already known for weeks now.<br/>
<br/>
For the rest of the day Tim floats, and now he knows what everyone is talking about when they say they’re walking on air. He feels lighter. He can’t stop thinking about it, about how <em> this </em> is what it feels like to love. This is what it feels like to <em> be </em> loved.<br/>
<br/>
This is the first time in his entire life that Tim has had a string reciprocated. It feels good.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim has to remind himself frequently that, as much as he might look up to Bruce’s mentorship, that’s as far as the line goes. Bruce is his mentor and friend—nothing more. He shouldn’t go in expecting the impossible, because why would Bruce let himself care about Tim after what happened to Jason? Bruce already has two sons. He doesn’t need a third.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe Tim is ungrateful. After all, he already has a dad. Sure, Jack can be aggressive at times and only pretends to listen when Tim tells him about his day, but that doesn’t give Tim any right to complain. His dad is alive, and that alone makes him more fortunate than half of the superheroes he knows. If Tim’s dad still doesn’t have a string for his own son, then at this point it <em> must </em> be Tim’s fault. What kind of a kid can’t get his father to love him?<br/>
<br/>
So Tim tries not to be hurt that the blue string twisted around his middle finger ends halfway between him and Bruce, blockaded by some invisible boundary that keeps Bruce from feeling the same at all costs. That’s okay. Bruce already had a son, and he lost him. Tim isn’t Jason. He’s not a replacement and has no right to think of himself as such.<br/>
<br/>
He’s just Tim. Just a kid fulfilling a role for his hero.<br/>
<br/>
Nothing more.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Before Young Justice was formed, Tim never understood Dick’s fondness when he went on about the old days with his Titans friends, living at the tower and getting on each other’s nerves. How could Dick reminisce about arguing with Donna over the TV remote and Garth leaving chip bags everywhere, as if those grievances could be considered “the good old days”?<br/>
<br/>
Now Tim gets it.<br/>
<br/>
Bart is like if one took the Energizer bunny and pumped it full of triple shot espressos before setting it loose. He’s a tornado in a china shop, buzzing here and there while talking so fast that Tim needs two Advils just to get through the day. And yet that impulsive, golden retriever of a kid makes his mark on Tim’s heart in no time, carving a nook there like he owns the place. Tim adores him more with every headache.<br/>
<br/>
If Bart is a tornado, Cassie is a lightning storm. She’s all booms and crashes, strong enough to snap Tim like a twig but kind enough to make him feel protected at the same time. She is thunder and hail, ravaging the sky in earth-shattering flashes. She is a warm night, like sitting on the window bench with a warm cup of tea while rain batters the glass. Whenever Tim thinks about armor, Cassie’s face is the first image that comes to mind.<br/>
<br/>
And then there’s Conner. They butt heads at first, much like their older counterparts. But then, just as their mentors did, a bond is forged stronger than any metal alloy. Tim’s mind is in a constant tug-of-war when he tries to come up with a definition for Conner Kent. There’s his Superboy side with his earrings and leather jackets, all booming laughter and lifting competitions with Cassie.<br/>
<br/>
Then there’s the other part of him. The part that carries just a hint of a midwestern drawl, even if he’s not aware he’s doing it. The part that wears flannels around the cave and watches cartoons until noon, sprawled out on the sofa with his head in Tim’s lap and his socked feet in Bart’s. The part of him that secretly seeks approval like it’s life-saving medicine, but would sooner die than admit it.<br/>
<br/>
Conner is sunshine and hurricanes, drought and drizzle. He’s Tim’s best friend, and Tim wouldn’t have him any other way.<br/>
<br/>
It’s why Tim isn’t surprised by the three new strings that spring up all within a few days of each other, each a fluorescent green and leading to his friends. His teammates. The best parts of their whole, the pieces that make up a new adventure in Tim’s life.<br/>
<br/>
He never knew friendship could make him feel so complete.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Dick calls Tim his little brother.<br/>
<br/>
That’s a thing that happens.<br/>
<br/>
And so casually, too. One minute the two of them are hanging out at Dick’s apartment, chatting and basking in the temporary stillness born from no responsibilities and zero fires to put out. Then Barbara calls, and when she asks who Dick is with, he replies so smoothly that Tim almost misses it.<br/>
<br/>
“Little brother.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim chokes on his next breath and covers it with a cough. Dick just—he just <em> said that. </em> Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a fact of life.<br/>
<br/>
For months Tim has secretly referred to Dick as his brother in his head, but he never said it <em> out loud. </em> He’s learned by now that the way he feels about the people he loves isn’t necessarily reciprocated, and he shouldn’t expect it to be. Dick and Bruce are still mourning their fallen soldier and probably will be forever.<br/>
<br/>
Tim is...he’s an intruder. There’s no point in sugarcoating it. Tim is nothing but a boy who barged into their lives to take up a role that <em> should </em> be occupied by someone else, if only the world weren’t so cruel. Tim hasn’t earned this the way Jason did, and he knows that. He’s known from the start that he’s a placeholder for the boy who can never be replaced.<br/>
<br/>
Then Dick goes and calls Tim his <em> brother. </em> And he doesn’t even correct himself, just ruffles Tim’s hair and keeps up the conversation with Barbara like he didn’t just drop an atomic bomb over everything Tim thought he knew until now. The world has flipped topsy-turvy, the floor is rolling beneath his feet.<br/>
<br/>
Up until this very second, Tim figured that there was a mutual understanding between them. Dick and Tim have a bond deeper than most that Tim has shared so far in his fourteen years of life, but he can’t take Jason’s place. He won’t and he shouldn’t. There has always been that wall between them, reminding them both that <em> Tim shouldn’t be here. </em> Replacements don’t get to reap the things that the original lost.<br/>
<br/>
But Tim can’t ignore the way his ring finger sings, like the string is purposely trying to drag him away from rationality. He’s spent so long trying to convince himself that he’s a temporary presence in this family—that as much as he may love the Waynes, the sentiment is not shared.<br/>
<br/>
Then he sees it. Tim can’t say what compels him to look after so long of avoiding the truth, but he follows the blue thread as it slinks toward Dick. A jolt goes through him when he registers the end of his string, not on the ground but tied to Dick’s right hand. Dick doesn’t seem to notice it, which suggests that this development is nothing new. As if it’s been there all along.<br/>
<br/>
Tim knows he’s going to hate himself for it later, but the heart wins out. He allows himself to sink into the blissful feeling that here, <em> here </em> is a family that <em> wants </em> him. His proof is right here, looped around Dick’s finger. It feels better than Tim thought it would. Is this what it’s like to be loved?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Next time, Tim doesn’t hesitate before calling Dick his brother.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Wally comes over today to spend time with Dick, which the two of them have been striving to make time for lately. They’re both so busy with their civilian lives <em>and </em>night lives that Tim is mystified at how they manage to remember setting aside one day every two weeks to meet up.<br/>
<br/>
Wally is hooking up Dick’s clunky PlayStation to the den TV while Tim works quietly in his favorite armchair in the corner. He’s on his third cup of coffee by the time their conversation shifts, catching his attention.<br/>
<br/>
“Come on, man,” Wally is saying. “Just admit that there’s some red in mine. Hell, there’s gotta be red in at least <em>half </em>of your strings. And since I’m obviously the hottest person you know, it’s only fair I get lusted after.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick’s shoulders are propped up on one armrest of the loveseat against the window while his legs hang off the other end. He takes a handful of popcorn from the bowl perched on his stomach. “Careful, Walls. If your ego inflates any more the house might fly away.”<br/>
<br/>
“Sound to me like someone’s avoiding the question. <em>Interesting.” </em><br/>
<br/>
Dick rolls his eyes. “Fine, then how many red ones do <em>you </em>have? Because I’ll bet on Tim’s life that mine is brighter than Linda’s.” Uh, rude?<br/>
<br/>
“First of all, I only have two, so fuck you.” It looks like Wally hooks up the right wire, for the TV screen lights up and the Mario Kart theme plays. “Ha! Told you I was a tech wizard.”<br/>
<br/>
Wow, Tim had no idea that hooking a couple of color-coded wires into a television made one a “tech wizard.” He’s been doing it wrong all this time.<br/>
<br/>
Wally dusts his hands off on his jeans. “And secondly, you can’t prove anything.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll take that as a forfeit.” Dick throws a popcorn kernel at Wally in victory. It bounces off his head and falls onto the carpet. “And for the record, I only have <em>six</em> strings with red in them, which is way less than half.”<br/>
<br/>
Wally snorts. “Slut. How is it that you grew up in the Addams Family household and <em>still </em>managed to turn into Gotham’s sweetheart?”<br/>
<br/>
“Maybe I’m just too pretty for my own good,” Dick replies with his most charming smile. It’s the same one that’s been plastered on magazines and celebrity blogs all over the country, just proving the point further. Then Dick tips his head back to look at Tim, who’s been minding his own business throughout this whole strange conversation. “What about you, Tim?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s fingers don’t stop their tap dance across the keyboard. “What about me?”<br/>
<br/>
“How many red strings do you have?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s hands still. His eyes dart to his hand despite knowing exactly what he’ll find there. It’s weird; up until this very second, it’s never occurred to Tim that his lack of red strings was anything abnormal. Wally and Dick talk about theirs like they’re a fact of life, something everyone has at one point or other. Tim can recall overhearing conversations in school cafeterias and locker rooms, guys his age boasting about their red strings as if every teenager in the world has had their fair share.<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s never had a red string before and isn’t entirely sure what it would feel like if he did. Not for Ariana, not for Steph, not for anyone. And that’s...that can’t be right.<br/>
<br/>
Tim recalls the time with Ariana, saying no to her...proposition. He lied when he told her that he was having the same feelings she was, and as time went on he <em>expected </em>that to change. Why wouldn’t it? Red strings are normal. Everyone feels sexual attraction, right?<br/>
<br/>
And then there’s Steph. There have been plenty of makeout sessions in her room, on her <em>bed, </em>and Tim loves them, really. He loves being with her, kissing her, making her as happy as she makes him. But as much as Steph offers the possibility of more with pointed touches and questions whispered between parted mouths, Tim never has any desire to go further. Never.<br/>
<br/>
And Steph respects that without a single argument, which came as a shock to Tim the first time. After all, he knows that Steph is more...<em>experienced </em>in that area. Clearly. She is eight months pregnant, after all. Yet she never pushes him to go any further than what he’s comfortable with, which is a kind of safety that Tim never imagined he’d get.<br/>
<br/>
“None,” he says now without meeting Dick’s eyes. “I don’t have any.”<br/>
<br/>
<em>That’s not normal.</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em><em>You’ll get one eventually, everybody does.</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em><em>Freak.</em><em><br/>
</em><em><br/>
</em>Dick shrugs without skipping a beat. “That’s all right, not everyone gets ‘em.” He turns back to Wally. “See? Further proof that I’m the most concupiscent one in the family.”<br/>
<br/>
“I won’t argue with you, but only because I’m proud of the vocab word.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, I got a word of the day app.”<br/>
<br/>
And they just. Continue with their conversation. Without dwelling on Tim’s lack of sexual interest the way he’s always done in his head.<br/>
<br/>
Huh.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim and Conner are in Conner’s room at the Kent farm, reading magazines while the air conditioner hums in the background. Tim could get used to spending time in Kansas. It’s quieter than Gotham, and there are <em> way </em> fewer costumed psychopaths. Tim is lying on his stomach at the foot of Conner’s bed while the clone himself is stretched out on the floor, carefully tearing away pages from his own magazine for origami.<br/>
<br/>
Tim has reread the same paragraph a good three times in the past five minutes, too distracted by his thoughts to give it any real effort. Finally he takes the plunge. “Hey, Conner?”<br/>
<br/>
Conner is folding a glossy supermodel into an airplane, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth in concentration. “Yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you have strings?”<br/>
<br/>
Conner stops and looks at Tim. “What?”<br/>
<br/>
“You know, soul strings.” Tim wiggles his fingers pointedly even though Conner can’t see them. “Do you have them because you’re part human, or do you not have them because you’re part alien?”<br/>
<br/>
“Does it matter?”<br/>
<br/>
“Not really. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I was just wondering.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s cool. I do have them, actually.”<br/>
<br/>
Interesting. Tim knows for a fact that Clark doesn’t have any due to his physiology not being of Earth, so maybe Conner’s human side took charge when it came to matters of the heart. “How many? If you don’t mind me asking.”<br/>
<br/>
“Three. You?”<br/>
<br/>
“Nine.”<br/>
<br/>
Kon lets out a low whistle. “Well, damn. Someone’s popular.”<br/>
<br/>
“More like easily attached.” Tim peeks over the edge of the mattress at Conner. “Who’re they for?”<br/>
<br/>
“Why are you so interested?”<br/>
<br/>
Play it cool. “Curiosity. Scientific research. Boredom.”<br/>
<br/>
Conner stretches out his left hand in front of him, fingers splayed. “Bart,” he says, pointing to his index. Then to his middle finger: “Cassie. She’s got a lot of pink in hers, but it’s still pretty green.” Lastly, his ring finger. “And this one’s you.”<br/>
<br/>
Being the one they both share, it’s the only one of Conner’s strings that Tim can actually see. It takes concentration, like a camera straining to focus, and even then it’s only enough so that Tim can tell that it goes to his hand and not to the floor. Soul strings are meant for the wearer.<br/>
<br/>
For a split second Tim wonders what color Conner sees from his end. Is it green like Tim’s, or is it something else? Then Tim mentally slaps himself. Of <em> course </em> it’s green, what else would it be?<br/>
<br/>
“Used to have a couple of red ones,” Conner continues, “back when I was a dumb teenager who didn’t know what I wanted.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim rolls his eyes. “You still <em> are </em> a dumb teenager.”<br/>
<br/>
“Fuck off.” Kon balls up one of the lighter magazines and throws it at Tim with super-cheating accuracy.<br/>
<br/>
Tim deflects it with a laugh. “For real, though. You don’t have anyone else? Just the three of us?”<br/>
<br/>
Conner shrugs. “Don’t need anyone else. Now hand me that Playboy, will you? I want to make a helicopter.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
In all his sixteen years of life, Tim has never lost a string. It’s a common thing, hardly an event that one would blink at. That’s how love works. You love and you love until one day you love a little less. Everyone loses a string sooner or later.<br/>
<br/>
Tim hasn’t.<br/>
<br/>
He wonders what it must be like, having a string fade away when the love you once felt vanishes. How does it feel to love someone so much that the universe ties you to them, only to run out of love to give?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Steph dies. She just...dies. Tim doesn’t know how it happened.<br/>
<br/>
Okay, that’s not entirely true. He knows exactly how it happened. Bruce tells Tim everything he needs to know on that hospital rooftop, stories above where Stephanie’s corpse lies on a silver slab. Bruce tells him about her injuries, her tanking vitals, her last words that <em> Tim </em> wasn’t there to see. He wasn’t there for any of it. And now he’s lost her.<br/>
<br/>
At some point Bruce’s voice starts to go in and out, fuzzy like an untuned radio. Tim thinks that something inside of himself must be shutting down as he feels his throat closing but can’t bring himself to care. His vision wobbles but he manages to stay upright, to keep the tears inside until Bruce finishes.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m so sorry, Tim. Is…” Bruce looks so out of his depth that Tim feels like laughing. He shouldn’t. “Can I do anything for you? I can take you home or—”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks for telling me, Bruce. Really. But I need to be alone right now.”<br/>
<br/>
Now that he pays more attention through the fuzz, Tim can see that Bruce’s eyes are rimmed with red. His hair is a mess and he looks like he’s aged ten years in one night. Steph was so loved and she’ll never even know it.<br/>
<br/>
“Tim...I don’t think that’s a good idea.”<br/>
<br/>
“Please leave, Bruce. Please, just—I can’t—” Tim takes a warbly breath, forces himself not to break. Not yet. “Go. Find someone else who needs your help. Please.”<br/>
<br/>
“Are you sure?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim nods.<br/>
<br/>
“Okay. Contact me on the comms if you need to talk.” Bruce hesitates for a moment, like he’s not sure if he should go in for a hug or not. He settles for squeezing Tim’s shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
Tim waits until Bruce’s silhouette disappears in the swamp of Gotham smog to let the cyclone hit. He’s been holding back the grief so hard and for so long that it slams into him with the force of a wrecking ball, making him lightheaded on impact. Tim falls to his knees, the jolt surging up his spine going unnoticed as he sucks in a breath and lets it out in a howling sob, shredding through his vocal cords. His chest hurts and he doesn’t know if he wants to cry or scream or vomit or pound the concrete of the roof until his knuckles split and break.<br/>
<br/>
He can’t think. He can’t—Stephanie is dead and he can’t <em> think. </em> He’s a memory file wiped clean, a footprint washed away by the tide, a boy whose girlfriend just <em> died </em> and he wasn’t even <em> there for her. </em> Steph needed him and Tim wasn’t there.<br/>
<br/>
God, when was the last time he even <em> talked </em> to her? He’s spent the past couple of weeks so certain that there would be plenty of time for apologies and reunions later on, but that time has been taken from them. <em> She’s </em> been taken.<br/>
<br/>
Tim wraps his arms around his middle but it doesn’t help him feel any more whole. It’s like his lungs have been ripped out of his chest and all that’s left is a hollow cavern. God, he can’t <em> breathe. </em> He doesn’t know how he’ll ever breathe again.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Black Mask. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Fatal injuries. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Tortured. </em> She was <em> tortured. </em><br/>
<br/>
Somehow, through the waves of grief, Tim remembers her string. Just thinking about it hurts as much as a physical wound, bleeding and throbbing and tearing bits of him away until there’s nothing left. But...he didn’t feel her die. Why didn’t he feel it? It’s common sense that when someone you love dies, you feel their string break. It happened when his mom died.<br/>
<br/>
Shaking, Tim unwraps his numb arms from around himself and looks down at his hand. The string...it takes him a minute to understand what he’s seeing through the tears. His brain is so disconnected from everything else around him that he wonders if this is what dissociating is like. He’s clear enough to know that Steph’s string isn’t the way Mom’s is.<br/>
<br/>
Instead of being ripped through the middle, Steph’s string is mangled. There’s something that could have been a tear, but it’s hanging on by a flurry of threads, knotted over and under each other as if they’re barbed wire and the two halves are clinging to each other with everything they have. Tim has no idea what this means. He’s never heard of anything like it before.<br/>
<br/>
Then he thinks, a little hysterically, of course. Of <em> course </em> this is what happens.<br/>
<br/>
Tim lost Steph, but fate doesn’t want him to have a clean break. It’s going to leave him like this, hanging by his fingertips, longing for what he can’t have because Tim’s in love with a ghost now. With a corpse. With the first person who ever loved him back, snatched away because Tim should have known that he’s not allowed to have it. Not any of it.<br/>
<br/>
He’s never felt anything like this before.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t do this. It’s too soon, too fast, too much.<br/>
<br/>
<em> “You listening, Tim? Good. Then understand one thing: If you don’t get here, it’s not your fault.” </em><br/>
<br/>
They’re not going to get there in time. Even as Bruce flies miles past the speed limit to get back to Tim’s house, it still won’t be fast enough. Tim knows it won’t.<br/>
<br/>
<em> “I love you, Tim. I love you just like your mother loves you.” </em><br/>
<br/>
Tears stream down Tim’s face as he feels a tugging on his string. A warning. A threat. “Dad, please—”<br/>
<br/>
He’s not ready. He’ll never <em> be </em> ready. Not for another funeral or another loss or another—he <em> can’t do this. </em><br/>
<br/>
<em> “Tell Bruce to take care of you…” </em><br/>
<br/>
There’s a commotion on the other end of the line and Tim’s heart stops in his chest.<br/>
<br/>
A whoosh of air.<br/>
<br/>
A gunshot.<br/>
<br/>
A scream.<br/>
<br/>
The string breaks. It falls, dissolving into wisps of air.<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Dad!” </em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Three funerals in two weeks.<br/>
<br/>
Darla. Dad. Steph.<br/>
<br/>
Tim only remembers bits and pieces of them.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Bruce offers to adopt him.<br/>
<br/>
Tim has waited to hear those words for so long that they might as well be a replay of a memory. He used to dream about it, being accepted into this family like he’s always wanted. No ghosts. No replacements. No guilt.<br/>
<br/>
Which is exactly why Tim declines.<br/>
<br/>
There <em> are </em> ghosts. There <em> is </em> a replacement. There <em> is </em> guilt, so thick that he can hardly breathe. How can Tim forget about his dad so easily? If he lets Bruce adopt him like he’s always wanted, then it will explain everything. It’ll explain why Jack and Janet never truly loved Tim as much as they claimed to, because he’s not the kind of son who <em> deserves </em> to be loved. He’ll be the kind who jumps ship at the first opportunity, forgetting his real parents and taking on a new life with open arms.<br/>
<br/>
So he hires an actor. He forges the paperwork. He finds an apartment, and the pieces come together far easier than he expected them to. He can see the longing in Bruce’s eyes when Tim’s fake uncle comes up in Dad’s will, as if he’s genuinely disappointed.<br/>
<br/>
And isn’t that how it always goes? Tim honors his parents by disappointing Bruce. And if he’d gone to live with Bruce like he truly wants, then fate would have laughed at him for being such an awful son.<br/>
<br/>
He doesn’t let himself feel sorry for it, which is how Tim knows for sure that he’s more rotten than he looks. Because Bruce’s string isn’t on the ground anymore, yet now it’s Tim who’s put up the wall.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Jason is back from the dead. Because of <em> course </em> he is.<br/>
<br/>
And he wants to kick Tim’s ass, apparently.<br/>
<br/>
Go figure.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Conner kisses him. It all happens so fast.<br/>
<br/>
They’re at the tail end of a team movie night at Titans Tower and just about everyone else has hobbled to bed except for the two of them. (And Gar, but he sleeps like the dead when he’s in sloth form.) They’re sleepy and Tim’s brain is fuzzy off the caffeine from three Zestis and he feels so warm in his spot against Conner’s side that he never wants to leave.<br/>
<br/>
Then Conner kisses him, completely out of nowhere, and Tim’s mind whites out. It only lasts a second before Conner is pulling away, apologies already spilling off his tongue.<br/>
<br/>
“Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, fuck, I’m an idiot—”<br/>
<br/>
Tim quiets him with another kiss. It’s slower, more careful than the first, but Conner gets the message in no time. While the first kiss was the faintest press against Tim’s lips, this one is deeper. Harder. Until Tim’s breath is swept away and the numbers in his brain stop clicking. Everything slows, but somehow he doesn’t mind.<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s never had alcohol before, but he knows already that Conner’s mouth is the finest wine. He could get drunk on it.<br/>
<br/>
All too soon, Conner pushes gently on Tim’s shoulder. “Wait.” He’s breathless, something Tim is monumentally proud of. “We should...talk. About us.”<br/>
<br/>
“Y-Yeah.” Tim licks his lips absently. “Okay.”<br/>
<br/>
So they talk. About this, about<em> them. </em>And Tim would be lying if he said that he didn’t want this thing between them to become something down the line. Conner is perfect. He’s Tim’s best friend and confidant, and Tim has spent so long wishing in a dark corner of his mind that they could be more. But...Steph.<br/>
<br/>
“I can’t…” Tim can’t find the words. “Not now,” he settles on. “It feels like I’m using you and betraying her at the same time.”<br/>
<br/>
He doesn’t say the real—well, the <em>main </em>reason for why he can’t do this right now. He doesn’t tell Conner that Tim has been...he doesn’t want to say broken, but it’s the only word he can think of. He’s too broken to put his heart in Conner’s hands now, knowing it might just do more damage to them both.<br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t be the boyfriend Conner wants. He might not <em>ever </em>be able to do that. Conner definitely senses that Tim is holding back in his explanation, but he doesn’t pry. He keeps the ball in Tim’s court, and Tim knows that if he let himself, he could fall in love with Conner. The green and pink string on his finger backs him up on that.<br/>
<br/>
But he can’t do it. Not now. Not while he’s coasting from day to day on fumes.<br/>
<br/>
So they make an agreement. Nothing steady. They’re going to stay best friends as they’ve always been; no messiness.<br/>
<br/>
And if once in a while Conner wants to hold Tim’s hand or Tim wants to go to a movie that’s not quite a platonic outing and not quite a date, that’s okay.<br/>
<br/>
For now, Tim is more than happy not to have a label.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
“Can we talk?”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is at the computer in the Batcave, a cold cup of tea forgotten beside the keyboard. He’s wearing his lounging-around-the-house clothes so it looks like Tim’s caught him at a good time. He’s more agreeable out of the cowl.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce doesn’t turn his head. “What’s up?”<br/>
<br/>
“I have some news. It’s not—I mean, it’s good news. Sort of. Maybe not <em>good</em> news, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. It’s not another worldwide crisis or a murder confession or anything. And if I killed someone I probably wouldn’t tell you about it anyway, but I’d send you a postcard on my way to Canada.”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce swivels around in his chair. “What?”<br/>
<br/>
“I have something that I need to tell you, and it’s important that you stay open-minded while I do, okay?”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is visibly confused, but he nods. “I can do that.”<br/>
<br/>
“Okay.” Tim takes a deep breath. “Okay. So...I like men.” Bruce’s expression doesn’t change, but Tim detects the slightest inhale. “And women,” he adds quickly. “You could say I’m bisexual, but it doesn’t have to be, like, a big deal. And if it is a problem I swear I’ll never bring it up again, it’ll be like it never happened. I’m not even really dating anyone right now, technically, but I still thought you should—”<br/>
<br/>
“How long have you known about this?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s gut twists itself into a pretzel. “Not that long. I sort of—I mean, I guess I knew it my whole life but I didn’t <em>know </em>it, you know? I never really thought about it until a few weeks ago, and after that I just wanted to get it off my chest which is why I’m even telling you right now.” Is he babbling? It feels like he’s babbling.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce nods, face completely blank which is as frustrating as it is terrifying. Is he mad? Did he already know? Tim wishes to know what he’s thinking as much as he doesn’t.<br/>
<br/>
“Are you upset?” Tim forces himself to ask after a minute. Moment of truth. Acceptance or revulsion. Love or hatred.<br/>
<br/>
“Of course not. You know I love you, Tim.”<br/>
<br/>
All of the air leaves Tim’s lungs in one huge whoosh. “Really?”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce doesn’t <em>quite </em>smile, but it’s the closest thing to it. “Really. If you came here looking for my support, you’ve already got it.” Then, before Tim has time to feel awkward, Bruce stands and pulls him in for a hug. Tim only hesitates for a second before he hugs back, relief encompassing him.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce moves back to look Tim in the eyes. “But you’re not allowed to have your door closed when Conner is over, got it?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim blushes. “Oh. Um, yeah. Got it.” He doesn’t even question how Bruce knows it’s Conner. Batman knows everything.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce pats him on the shoulder. “Good. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s always heard that true love is unconditional.<br/>
<br/>
He never believed that until now.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t recall when exactly Cass’ string shifted to blue. It used to be a light green, pale as fresh moss. It was a comforting shade, just like the person it represented.<br/>
<br/>
Now Tim’s thumb is adorned with a teal blue thread, something he only catches on while pulling on his gloves for tonight’s patrol. As surprising as it would normally be to discover an entirely new color, Tim isn’t shocked. It makes sense. He loves Cass like the sister he’s always wanted but could never have, and he’s honored that he gets to be this Batgirl’s Robin. She’s family.<br/>
<br/>
The blue suits her.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim looks at the adoption papers, at his new signature.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne. </em><br/>
<br/>
Despite everything it took for him to arrive at this moment, he grins. <em><br/>
</em><br/>
It’s got a nice ring to it.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Conner’s string falls. Tim cracks right down the center.<br/>
<br/>
When he sees his—the<em>—his </em> body lying lifeless on the ground, it takes Tim a minute to realize that the scream-sobs he hears are coming from his own throat. He collapses on his knees beside Conner, shaking so hard that the torn green and pink thread on his finger trembles with him.<br/>
<br/>
This can’t be happening.<br/>
<br/>
This can’t be happening.<br/>
<br/>
This can’t…<br/>
<br/>
He can’t.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
The days pass in a haze.<br/>
<br/>
As it turns out, death isn’t exclusively for the dead. The living die right along with them.<br/>
<br/>
Conner may be gone, but Tim is the zombie now.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
It’s nighttime when Tim feels an electric bolt, sharp enough that he feels it radiate in his fillings. He knows what it is before he even looks at the string dangling from his finger, lime green and constantly giving off the slightest buzzing sensation. Until now, that is.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a blinding shock, then nothing.<br/>
<br/>
No buzzing.<br/>
<br/>
No electricity.<br/>
<br/>
Bart is gone.<br/>
<br/>
Tim doesn’t care that he shatters his phone into tiny pieces against the wall and then stomps them to dust. He has no one to call anyway.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<em> Cloning attempt one: failed. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> Will Conner’s string be repaired when Tim succeeds?<br/>
<br/>
<em> Cloning attempt fourteen: failed. </em><br/>
<br/>
Or will there be a new thread, a new life to symbolize?<br/>
<br/>
<em> Cloning attempt thirty-two: failed. </em><br/>
<br/>
Tim tells himself it doesn’t matter.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Cloning attempt fifty-nine: failed. </em><br/>
<br/>
He’ll take whatever he can get.<br/>
<br/>
<em> Cloning attempt seventy-three: failed. </em><br/>
<br/>
No matter what it takes.<br/>
<br/>
“Initiate attempt seventy-four.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Sometimes Tim wonders what the point is of having soul strings. All throughout history it’s been universally understood that they are supposed to be reminders of love, of life, of what it means to forge an unbreakable bond and keep it.<br/>
<br/>
But the bonds are breakable. They’re <em>so </em>breakable.<br/>
<br/>
And Tim starts to think that maybe the strings are supposed to be a noose instead.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
“Tim, I think we should talk.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim is sitting on his bed, re-configuring blueprints for Titans Tower. With Conner and Bart absent, the age-old argument of a game room versus a much-needed archery range is dissolved. Tim draws up the game room anyway.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m busy, Dick.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’ll only take a second.” Dick moves aside a pile of Taco Bell wrappers and sits on the edge of the bed, facing Tim. “It feels like I never see you anymore. I wanted to catch you while you’re still here.”<br/>
<br/>
“Sorry about that.” This being his first real conversation in days, Tim is suddenly aware of how dull his voice sounds. Is it always like this? “I’ll try and visit Blüdhaven more.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s not what I meant. I get that you’re busy with your own stuff, and that’s totally cool. I just want to make sure that if you ever need to...you know, talk or something, you have my number.” He hands Tim a slip of paper—laminated, as if Tim would toss it otherwise.<br/>
<br/>
Tim looks down at the paper like it’s printed in Tamaranean. “...Talk.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t come to me when you have a problem just because we’re not in the same city at the time.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim sets aside the card. “Thanks, but I already have your cell number on speed dial.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know you do. This is my work number. No matter where I am or what you think I’m busy doing, I want you to call me if you ever need someone to talk to. I’ll set aside everything, even if it’s for something small and pointless like scraped knee trauma.”<br/>
<br/>
“Why?”<br/>
<br/>
Dick’s lips tighten into a smile that he likely doesn’t mean to be as condescending as it is. “You’ve been through a lot lately. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s expression hardens in an instant. “Taken care of. Got it.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s not what I meant,” Dick says, backtracking. “Just...I dunno. Bruce took care of me when I needed someone to lean on. I want to make sure that there’s someone for you to lean on too.”<br/>
<br/>
This right here? <em> This </em> is why Dick Grayson is everyone’s favorite superhero. Even when he’s not wearing a mask or tights, he still finds a way to save people. There’s no doubt in Tim’s mind that Dick was born with heroism coursing through his veins.<br/>
<br/>
It’s a shame that he’s wasting it all on Tim.<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, Dick. I appreciate it, really.” Tim tries to sound like he means it. It’s hard to tell if it’s working or not.<br/>
<br/>
“I wouldn’t be opposed to you visiting my city more often, though. In case that wasn’t already clear.” Dick ruffles Tim’s hair. “The two of us haven’t been train-surfing in a while, huh?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim nods, eyes fixed on his hand as he twists it this way and that, watching the glowing threads fall across his skin. He’s found himself watching them more often lately, paranoid that if he stays complacent for too long, one will clip itself just to spite him.<br/>
<br/>
“Have you ever lost one?” he asks.<br/>
<br/>
Dick’s brows furrow. “Of course I have, you know that. Losing a loved one is—”<br/>
<br/>
“Not that. I meant if you’ve ever lost a string. Fell out of love and forgot about them.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick bites his tongue. “No, I haven’t.”<br/>
<br/>
“Me neither.” Tim drops his hand. “Look, I’ll call you if I need you, okay? I promise. But right now...right now I need some time by myself. Just to get my head straight.”<br/>
<br/>
He can practically read Dick’s thoughts now, trying to compute the request but failing. Of course he doesn’t get it. One of Dick’s greatest qualities is his unrelenting compassion. He’s always there when someone needs a shoulder to cry on, just as he needs one when he’s going through his <em> own </em> turmoil. Dick is a connection-oriented person, whereas Tim is not.<br/>
<br/>
Tim doesn’t need to be coddled when he’s grieving. He wouldn’t know how to take it without feeling like a burden even if he wanted to. All he needs is some time with himself, sorting through his own emotions and knowing all the while that he has people he can run to when he’s done.<br/>
<br/>
“Okay,” Dick says finally. “I’ll be there when you do.”<br/>
<br/>
“Thanks, Dick.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim used to question how it was possible to have a family member and not love them enough for them to get a string.<br/>
<br/>
Then he meets Damian, and he understands.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
All he wants is a sample. That’s all Tim needs.<br/>
<br/>
With the Lazarus Pit’s help, Tim can finally start bringing the people he’s lost back to life. He can make things <em>right </em>again. Why can’t anyone else <em>understand that?</em><br/>
<br/>
Dick preaches to him about logic, natural order. As if everything in the world is so simple, wrapped up in a neat little bow. He doesn’t know how it feels to lose piece after piece of yourself until you wish you’d never learned to love in the first place, just so it can’t hurt anymore.<br/>
<br/>
“Tim—listen—think <em>logically</em> for a minute,” Dick says. As if he knows more than Tim does about logic. “The pit can’t resurrect someone out of thin air. It requires organic matter<em>, physical </em>bodies to rejuvenate.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick dodges Tim’s swing, his movements far more graceful than Tim’s stunted, jerky ones. Tim wants him to stop talking. Stop trying to talk sense into him. He doesn’t <em>want </em>sense right now. That’s the whole point of the fucking magic water.<br/>
<br/>
“The people you’ve lost—your dad, Spoiler, Conner—I don’t mean to be crass, but they’ve been <em>dead </em>too long. Their bodies have—they’ve just <em>decayed </em>too much, Tim. I’m sorry.”<br/>
<br/>
They say if you love someone enough, you can accomplish anything. It’s how people lift cars to save babies and how every fairy tale ends with true love’s kiss.<br/>
<br/>
But it looks like that eternal love stuff was bullshit after all.<br/>
<br/>
Why is he even surprised?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim doesn’t go through with it. He dumps out the test tubes, watching his last chance at saving them all soak into the dirt. He tells himself he doesn’t regret it.<br/>
<br/>
Dick holds him, lets Tim lean into him as the grief resettles like an old scar. “I’m sorry,” Tim whispers, clutching Dick’s arm as tears trail down to collect at his jaw. “I’m so sorry.”<br/>
<br/>
The apology is as much for Dick as it is for them. The ones who are gone, who will <em> stay </em> gone. Tim failed them all.<br/>
<br/>
“You have nothing to apologize for. <em> Nothing.” </em> Dick holds Tim tighter, presses a kiss to the back of his head. “I let you make the choice for yourself because I <em> knew </em> you’d make the right one.”<br/>
<br/>
He’s lying. Tim can tell.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Steph is back.<br/>
<br/>
Everything makes sense now.<br/>
<br/>
...Why doesn’t it dull the ache?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Years ago, back when Tim was still a young Robin in the shadows of giants, Bruce said while on the downhill slope from a bad dose of fear gas that Tim was different from Dick and Jason. Instinctively, Tim expected a reprimand to follow. Or, even worse, a dismissal. Instead, Bruce hit him with a curveball he never saw coming.<br/>
<br/>
“Dick and Jason, they needed Robin to keep them afloat. It was their lifeline. But you, Tim...you were never like that. You became Robin because you wanted to help a cause bigger than yourself. You never needed me, but I needed you more than I ever thought I did. You <em>saved</em> me. And I should have thanked you for that sooner.”<br/>
<br/>
At the time, Tim was flabbergasted. <em>More</em> than flabbergasted. Bruce had never been so honest with him before, and Tim nearly disregarded his words due to the fear gas’ influence erasing his filter. But he couldn’t bring himself to, for he had a feeling that this would be the first <em>and</em> last time Bruce would be so candid with him.<br/>
<br/>
It’s the only reason Tim didn’t protest Bruce’s words, even though Bruce had it all wrong. Every last detail.<br/>
<br/>
The truth is that, as much as Batman may have needed Robin, Tim needed <em>Batman</em> just the same. He clung to Batman his entire life growing up until it filled his every thought. It was his lifeline when he had nothing else, even before he joined the family for real. Tim needed—<em>needs</em>—Batman the way other people need a heartbeat.<br/>
<br/>
Sometimes he’s sure that without Bruce in his life, Tim would die. It’s just a reality he’s accepted. He needs Bruce—his guidance, his stability, his presence as the one true <em>rock </em>in Tim’s life.<br/>
<br/>
As much as Tim may have indeed saved Batman four years ago, there is no denying that Batman saved Tim Drake right back.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Bruce…<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is...<br/>
<br/>
<em> Bruce. </em><br/>
<br/>
Tim thinks he shuts down for a while.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Everything that happens after Bruce’s death comes in snapshots, disconnected like a camera capturing still images. There’s a brief shot of the body—Bruce’s charred, skeletal, <em> dead </em> body—that Tim blocks out as soon as it’s processed. Then an extended shot, covering the days afterward when Tim won’t leave his bed for anything. He knows it’s selfish. His family needs him to be there for them right now, and instead he’s hiding out to wallow in self-pity.<br/>
<br/>
But...Bruce. Bruce is gone.<br/>
<br/>
What now? Five of Tim’s strings have been cut. That’s half of them. And the hole in Tim’s chest that’s been hollow since his mom died just keeps getting bigger and bigger and <em> bigger. </em> At this point he’s surprised there’s any of himself left.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe there isn’t. Maybe the nooses are winning.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
They try to talk sense into him. Dick, Cassie, Steph...they don’t get it. They never got it.<br/>
<br/>
Tim was right about what he said before. Without Batman, there <em> is </em> no Tim Drake. He’s so twisted into the Batman and Robin legacy that he can’t tell where it begins and he ends. Batman<em>—Bruce </em> is a vital organ that Tim needs to survive, and now he’s lost it. But he can fix it. He’ll find a way.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Steph can’t be trusted.<br/>
<br/>
Tim <em> wants </em> to trust her, wants it so badly that it would take almost no effort at all to fall into her arms and confess to her everything he’s been holding back. But he can’t do that. Bruce needs him.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m worried about you, Tim,” she says. <em> “Everyone </em> is worried about you.”<br/>
<br/>
Yeah, right. If they <em> really </em> cared about Tim, they would believe in him. Dick wouldn’t send Tim’s friends to do his dirty work, checking up on him like a psych patient in need of supervision. They would <em> listen </em> to him.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, Steph tells him that Dick is right, he needs help. If only he would slow down and take a look at himself, he would see that too. “Just <em> talk </em> to me,” she pleads. “You don’t have to be alone.”<br/>
<br/>
She goes to touch his cheek, maybe force him to pull up his cowl and look her in the eye, but Tim grabs her wrist before she can touch him. He can’t do this. Any of it. He needs to get out of here.<br/>
<br/>
“Don’t follow me, Steph,” are his parting words to her. He doesn’t let himself say more. <em> I wish you could see. I wish I could tell you the truth, show you how much I miss you. How much it hurts to leave. How much I want to be able to trust you again. </em><br/>
<br/>
Tim remembers when he used to look at Steph and feel everything, the sun and the stars and the moon.<br/>
<br/>
He holds onto the memory of that feeling for as long as he can. It’s the only thing he has left of her.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Bruce is alive. Tim tells himself that same phrase over and over, hoping with each pass that he can make it true.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is alive.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is alive.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is <em> alive. </em><br/>
<br/>
It’s either that, or he’s crazy.<br/>
<br/>
“I know you believe Bruce is alive,” Dick<em>—Batman—</em>says, “and god knows <em> I </em> want that to be true. But this time...this time is <em> different. </em> You can feel it, I know you can.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t. Tim can’t feel anything anymore. Not without Bruce.<br/>
<br/>
He’s lost everything now. <em> Everything. </em> Tim once read a quote by some philosopher or poet. He can’t remember much of it except that it stated the importance of love in a person’s life. That a heart, a person, a <em> soul </em> is made up of the people their love is given to—of friends, family, loved ones. But Tim’s run out of loved ones.<br/>
<br/>
Does that mean his heart is empty? Is Tim even a person anymore if everyone he loves is gone? Bruce. Conner. Bart. Mom. Dad. Robin. He’s lost <em> Robin, </em> the <em> one thing </em> he had left to hold onto. Tim’s life is falling apart and the last thing he had was just...taken away from him. Without a second thought. It’s the only reason he’s able to fight Dick and not feel guilty about it.<br/>
<br/>
“You think I don’t know?” Tim demands. “You think I don’t know how it sounds? I lose my parents, I lose my friends, and then I lose <em> Bruce.” </em><br/>
<br/>
Five snipped threads. Five people who have been stolen from Tim. Like he’s a piñata and the universe is wielding a baseball bat studded with nails.<br/>
<br/>
“I know how it sounds. I lost everything, I snapped...I <em> know </em> how it sounds.” He blocks Dick’s fist with a grunt. “But I’m <em> right, </em> Dick. And I’m going to prove it.”<br/>
<br/>
This is a betrayal. Tim knows that for certain. Dick just lost Bruce, and now Tim is leaving him too. He’s an awful person for abandoning his family when they need to be united more than ever—he’s an awful <em> brother </em> for leaving Dick like this.<br/>
<br/>
But maybe that’s a good thing. It’ll make it easier for Dick to let him go.<br/>
<br/>
Even when Tim storms out of Gotham that night, maybe for good, Dick’s string doesn’t waver.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim starts wearing gloves more often. It hurts to see those bright strings on his fingers, some reaching for souls halfway across the world while others have become dull, faded where they end in a limp splice. Their life has been drained, and is it crazy that Tim starts empathizing with them? Maybe he <em> is </em> crazy after all.<br/>
<br/>
The gloves don’t make it any easier, but they do help to keep Tim on task. It’s good to keep moving, to stop dwelling on the past, not linger in one spot for too long.<br/>
<br/>
Tim should have done this years ago.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
It’s three in the morning in Moldova when Tim wakes up. His Red Robin suit is stashed in a suitcase under the bed of the hotel room he’s staying in tonight. Tomorrow he’s off to Voznesens’k, but for now he’s taking a short breather.<br/>
<br/>
Of course, the Tim Drake version of “taking a breather” is spending all day on his search and letting himself scroll through hacked Batcave reports for half an hour before bed. His family is doing okay, at least. Jason is Jason. Dick is Dick. Damian is Robin.<br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t remember how long he spent staring at the ceiling afterward before sleep claimed him. Is there even a difference anymore? There must be, because he wakes up in his dark room, cars honking outside and the radiator buzzing against the wall in a low drone.<br/>
<br/>
Something’s...wrong. That’s the first thing to hit Tim when his eyes open. He’s lagging from little sleep, so his body might as well be made of taffy. His head joins the radiator’s buzzing hymn and part of him wonders if he’s sick or maybe even dreaming. He feels...detached. But present at the same time.<br/>
<br/>
Then his hand starts to burn and Tim is <em> sure </em> he’s dreaming.<br/>
<br/>
He holds it up, checking for a wound that he missed, a burn, a telltale sign that someone shot him with a poisoned dart in his sleep and he’s about to die in a minute. He wouldn’t panic if that were the case.<br/>
<br/>
Instead, Tim’s two green strings, once whole but now tattered and broken, are <em> glowing. </em> A surge runs through Tim’s hand, up his arm and through the marrow in his bones. He can’t even begin to guess what this could be, except that maybe the universe is imploding and this is the first step. Or maybe he’s hallucinating.<br/>
<br/>
Before Tim can settle on a reaction to what he’s sure is an impossible phenomenon, the strings start to mend themselves. It happens quickly—too quickly for him to make sense of it.<br/>
<br/>
One minute he’s got five dead loved ones. In the next, Bart and Conner’s threads are whole again save for the scarred knots a few inches down, right where the split happened.<br/>
<br/>
This is...this…<br/>
<br/>
Tim drops his hand. He...this means something has changed, right? Like Jason. He was dead and then he wasn’t. Conner and Bart, their strings were torn and now they’re repaired. This <em> means </em> something, he knows it does, and if he were the Tim Drake from two years ago he’d be leaping out of bed right now and contacting Superman for the nearest Watchtower zeta.<br/>
<br/>
But this Tim doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he lies back down and stares at the ceiling again, imagining Bart’s laugh and Conner’s smile and Bruce’s voice. He makes a mental note to keep an ear out for any huge universal changes, for a trace of speedster or Kryptonian in the Batcave’s pilfered reports.<br/>
<br/>
Tim should care more. His heart should be overflowing with <em> something, </em> but he’s lost it all. There’s no emotion left to spare.<br/>
<br/>
How did a boy who once cared too much become a boy who stopped caring at all?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tam is smart. Funny. <em> Alive. </em> What blossoms between them is something that Tim can’t bring himself to name. In another life, he might be able to love her over time.<br/>
<br/>
He wants Tam to have a string. Might even need it. A sign that he’s still capable of loving, of being loved back. He doesn’t know anymore.<br/>
<br/>
Tam kisses him and he expects to feel that telltale tingle in his fingers, signalling a connection, but it never comes. Not then, and not afterward.<br/>
<br/>
He’s pretty sure she would get a string eventually, if only Tim could feel anything.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p><br/>
<br/>
For the first time in the years he’s known Conner, Tim doesn’t know what to say to him. It used to be so easy, back before everything changed. They’re on the phone one night, three weeks after Paris. It’s still a shock to hear Conner’s voice, warm and alive.<br/>
<br/>
“I called home today.” Tim’s not wearing his cowl right now but he still feels the weight of it.<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Yeah? How’d it go?” </em> Even though Tim can’t see Conner, he can imagine him lounging on his bed at the farmhouse, Martha’s pies wafting in through the crack in the door. Sunlight from the open window gives him a golden spotlight, lighting him up.<br/>
<br/>
“Alfred and I talked for a while. Damian hasn’t killed anyone in months, which is a huge achievement for him. And Steph is kicking ass as Batgirl.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “You’re dodging,” </em> Conner says, and Tim had a feeling he would call him out on that. Conner knows him too well.<br/>
<br/>
“I thought about going back. Just for a little while. To catch my breath.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Okay.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“Do you think I should?”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Is that what you want me to say?” </em><br/>
<br/>
“I want you to tell me what you think.”<br/>
<br/>
Conner sighs. <em> “Tim, you and I both know you’re going to decide for yourself no matter what I say. But if you really want my opinion...I think you could use a break. Reconnect with your family while you can.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“I can always put it off until after I find Bruce. It’s what I planned on doing anyway.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Sounds like you’re avoiding them.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“Not avoiding. I just...I cut a lot of ties when I left. Too many ties. Makes me wonder if they’ll even take me back.”<br/>
<br/>
A snort. <em> “I never thought I’d witness the great Mr. Drake scared of his own family.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“I’m not scared.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?” </em><br/>
<br/>
“You can’t even see me.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “Your heart rate sped up.” </em><br/>
<br/>
Tim almost laughs. It’s been years since Conner admitted to Tim that he can pick his heartbeat out from across the world, from the densest crowds. Anyone else would feel violated, but Tim just feels safe under his watch. “Stalker,” he says anyway.<br/>
<br/>
<em> “I can’t help what I hear,” </em> Conner replies.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, you can.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “...Okay, you got me.” </em> Tim laughs. <em> “But really, I think you should do whatever you think is right.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“And what is that, exactly?” <em><br/>
</em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> “Hell if I know. But I do know you, Tim Drake. And I know that if finding Bruce is this important to you, you need to keep at it until you’re finished. Just don’t forget to take a break every once in a while so you don’t keep those ties snipped for good.” </em><br/>
<br/>
“Being dead made you wise, you know that? It’s kind of creepy.”<br/>
<br/>
Conner laughs. <em> “Nah, I just learned it from you.” </em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
As it turns out, Tim doesn’t end up needing to make a decision between going home and continuing his search. The Black Lanterns make the decision for him.<br/>
<br/>
Because the dead just <em> love </em> to haunt Tim.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim has learned quite a bit about the Lantern Corps from Bruce’s files and the Justice League’s mission logs. Green represents will. Red is rage, orange is greed, yellow is fear, blue is hope, indigo is compassion, and violet is love.<br/>
<br/>
What color would Tim be if he were put to the test? Probably hope. Maybe rage. Maybe <em> both. </em><br/>
<br/>
At least he knows which ones Dick would be. Compassion. Love. Will. Hope. All of the good ones.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
It’s quiet when Tim leaves in the morning, after all of the risen dead have been put back where they belong. It was a long night for everyone, which led to nearly all of their allies who know the Bat’s identity crashing in the manor’s living room to sleep off their most stressful adventure to date.<br/>
<br/>
Tim is the first one awake, being on a completely different schedule thanks to his traipse through Europe. He’s missed Gotham’s sunrise. He bypasses breakfast for heading up to his old room to pack a duffel bag of his things, adding the few mementos he never got the chance to take with him when he left the first time.<br/>
<br/>
Dick knocks on the open door frame. “Hey.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim stuffs a handful of books into the bag. “I thought I was the only one awake.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve been running on Batman time lately. I’m lucky if I get more than six hours a night.” Dick inclines his head toward the duffel on the bed. “You’re heading out already?”<br/>
<br/>
Caught. “I was hoping to slip out before anyone noticed,” Tim admits. “But you don’t have to worry, I’ll be out of your hair before Alfred wakes up and tries to make me stay.”<br/>
<br/>
“I was hoping you and I could talk, actually. Just us.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim checks his watch. “I have a plane to catch.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’ll only take a second.” Dick’s wearing the same sweatpants he wore to sleep—a laughable contrast to Tim’s white button-down shirt and jeans. Somehow Tim still feels like a kid compared to Dick.<br/>
<br/>
“You’ve got my attention.” He doesn’t stop packing.<br/>
<br/>
Dick scratches the back of his neck, and Tim so rarely sees him this unsure of himself that it makes him feel a little guilty. “I want to apologize for how things went down between us. When you left, I mean. I should have listened to you.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim shrugs, eyes locked on the sweatshirt he carelessly stuffs into his bag. “It wasn’t your fault.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yes, it was. You were in pain and it was my job to be there for you, but I screwed it up. Instead of supporting you, I treated you like you were crazy and tried to crush your hope. I’m so sorry, Tim. I’m going to be better.”<br/>
<br/>
“You did everything you could.” For the first time, Tim meets his brother’s eyes. “You were struggling just as much as I was, trying to be Batman and hold everyone together. I don’t blame you.”<br/>
<br/>
“But you’re still leaving.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim zips up the duffel and lugs it over his shoulder. “I’ve got work to do.”<br/>
<br/>
“You still think he’s out there?”<br/>
<br/>
“I know he is. And I’m not stopping until I bring him home.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick gnaws on his bottom lip. He still doesn’t believe in Tim’s theory, that much is obvious. Tim expects another “you don’t know what you’re talking about” lecture, but Dick just musters as supportive a smile as he can. “Okay. I trust you. Just...be careful out there, okay? I get worried about you, off on your own like that.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’ll manage.”<br/>
<br/>
“Good.” Dick reaches out to grip Tim’s shoulder. Tim doesn’t jerk away from the touch like he would have a few months ago. “And I meant what I said before. It really is going to be different from now on,” Dick promises, eyes earnest. “I’m going to listen more. I won’t let you down again.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s heard this very speech a million times from his dad, back when Jack was trying to be a good father. It’s practically a script at this point. <em> I’ll try harder. We’ll spend time together tomorrow. I won’t forget again. I’m too busy now, but we will soon. I promise. </em><br/>
<br/>
Yet when Dick says it, Tim believes him in an instant. There’s no question in his mind that Dick will follow through on his word. “Okay.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick opens his arms, an invitation. “Can I get a hug before you go?” He doesn’t step forward—he waits for Tim to make the first move, and how can Tim turn him down? He obliges and <em> god, </em> Tim forgot how much he missed Dick’s hugs. He’s been even more homesick than he thought.<br/>
<br/>
When they separate, Dick rubs Tim’s head one last time. “Love you, kiddo. Stay safe.”<br/>
<br/>
“I love you too.”<br/>
<br/>
Dick’s string pulses, warm against Tim’s skin.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe they will be okay.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Bruce is back. He’s <em> back. </em><br/>
<br/>
He was lost in time, but Tim brought him back and he’s not leaving again.<br/>
<br/>
Everything is the way it should be.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Right?<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim and Cass are sitting on a rooftop with a chalked tic-tac-toe board between them. It’s the lull between crises, an intermission in which to wind down as the sun threatens to peek over the city’s horizon. Cass has taken off her Black Bat mask. Tim keeps his cowl on.<br/>
<br/>
Cass etches a circle in the center for her first move. “You’re...heavy.”<br/>
<br/>
“Really?” Tim asks. “‘Cause Leslie keeps getting on my back about how underweight I am.”<br/>
<br/>
Cass cracks a smile. “Not like that. You…” She slumps her shoulders pointedly, mimicking Tim’s frown that has become a permanent part of his bone structure. “Heavy.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim scratches an X in the top right corner. “Oh.” It’s not hard to imagine why she’d think that. Even here, a thousand feet off the ground with his legs dangling in the air, Tim still feels the weight of something pressing on him, keeping him down.<br/>
<br/>
“Not judging. Just an observation.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s cool. I’m just...like that, I guess.”<br/>
<br/>
She shakes her head. “Not always. Used to...be light. But you changed.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim waits for her to mark her next spot on the board, then draws another X. “I thought it would fix everything, getting Bruce back. And it has. But...I dunno. Something’s off.”<br/>
<br/>
“Broken bones…” Cass makes a snapping motion, like breaking a stick in two. “Still hurt after you fix them.” She draws another circle.<br/>
<br/>
“Great,” Tim says with an empty chuckle. “So I’m going to be screwed up forever?”<br/>
<br/>
“Not forever. Still healing.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m kind of over the whole healing thing. I’d rather just stay in my own lane for a while. Less messy that way.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim expects Cass to laugh it off, but her eyes are solemn. She reaches over and places her hand over his on the concrete ledge, interlocking their fingers. He knows she can’t see his strings and he can’t see hers, but he can imagine them tangling with each other. A web of loves and losses.<br/>
<br/>
“My dad...taught me love and weakness are the same. Liability. Said...hearts get broken unless they’re made of bricks.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you think he was right?”<br/>
<br/>
She shrugs. “Sometimes. Loving...is easy. Keeping is harder.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim looks at the mess of his strings, most of them knotted and torn. He wears a graveyard.<br/>
<br/>
He moves out from under her touch and picks up the forgotten chalk. He makes his move and swipes a line, connecting the three X’s. “I win. Go again?”<br/>
<br/>
Cass nods.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Today is the anniversary. Tim can’t believe he forgot.<br/>
<br/>
He rushes to get dressed and is out the door in five minutes tops, ignoring Alfred asking him what’s the hurry. Tim buys flowers from the florist downtown, then walks the whole way to the cemetery despite the December weather.<br/>
<br/>
His parents’ graves sit beside each other in their usual spot, covered in fresh snow. Tim lays the flowers in front of Janet’s headstone and brushes the snow from them both. He should have brought gloves. By the time he’s finished his fingers are completely numb.<br/>
<br/>
He steps back, holding back shivers. “Sorry I’m late. I know I usually try to visit by sunrise but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and it...it slipped.” His breath fogs in front of his lips. “It’s been a hard year. I know that’s not an excuse, but it really has.”<br/>
<br/>
God, he’s the worst. Tim <em> forgot </em> about the anniversary of his own mother’s death and here he is, at her grave trying to make excuses for himself. The fact is that it never should have slipped from his mind to begin with. He’s been trying so hard to move on with his life, reforge broken bonds, but does that mean forgetting the past? Should Tim move on if it means he’s just going to abandon those he left behind?<br/>
<br/>
Backdropped by the snow-covered ground, Tim’s threads give off the faintest glow. Pink, green, blue—when will <em> they </em> become forgotten as well? Left behind, abandoned in favor of something new?<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s always believed that holding memories is how you keep someone alive forever. By forgetting his parents, Tim might as well be killing them all over again.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
“Tim? You okay?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim blinks, his eyes darting to find Bruce in the doorway. When did he get there?<br/>
<br/>
Tim has spent the past however long hiding out in Bruce’s study, trying to get some work done. Something about this room has always helped him focus, all quiet and smelling of Bruce’s aftershave. Plus this is, hands down, the most comfortable sofa in the house. Tim doesn’t even remember zoning out, staring over his computer screen at nothing like he’s been lobotomized.<br/>
<br/>
He rubs his eyelids. “Yeah, sorry. Just...lost in thought.”<br/>
<br/>
“What were you thinking about?”<br/>
<br/>
“Nothing important.” There’s a plastic takeout bag hanging from Bruce’s grasp. “Sorry, you—you probably want your office back.” He starts to pack up his stuff but Bruce stops him.<br/>
<br/>
“No, I was looking for you, actually. Alfred took Cass curtain shopping and Damian’s at school, so we’re on our own for lunch.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim recognizes the smell from here. “Pad Thai?”<br/>
<br/>
“With shrimp.”<br/>
<br/>
Thank <em>god. </em>Alfred banned shrimp from the manor years ago when they discovered Jason was allergic after an incident that Tim wishes he’d been there for. Alfred kept the law in place even while Jason was dead, and only cracked down harder when Jay started spending more time at the manor. No one turns down Sunday dinner unless they want to face Alfred’s fury.<br/>
<br/>
Tim and Bruce are the ones who suffer the most from the shrimp ban due to their shared love of shellfish. Tim can’t count how many times he and Bruce have snuck out to gorge themselves on shrimp in delicious civil disobedience.<br/>
<br/>
They eat in comfortable silence, Tim just happy to be eating something besides the sleeve of saltines he keeps in his nightstand. He should probably set some reminders in his phone to eat more often.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re quiet today,” Bruce observes.<br/>
<br/>
“Am I? Sorry.”<br/>
<br/>
“You don’t have to apologize. I was just wondering if there’s something on your mind.”<br/>
<br/>
It’s pointless to avoid the subject now. This is Bruce’s way of being <em>subtle. </em>“I forgot an anniversary the other day.”<br/>
<br/>
Of course Bruce knows which one Tim is talking about. Tim has a suspicion that it’s what prompted the Pad Thai therapy in the first place. “Okay.”<br/>
<br/>
“It wasn’t even for that long. It’s not like I realized it a week later or anything. I just...didn’t think of it until a little before noon.”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce’s eyes are warm, comforting. “That isn’t your fault. You still remembered it eventually, right? No harm done.”<br/>
<br/>
“You mourn your parents for a full two weeks before the day comes around.”<br/>
<br/>
“So? You aren’t me. Having your own life doesn’t make a bad son <em>or </em>a bad person.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah.” Tim coils a noodle around his chopstick. “I know that.”<br/>
<br/>
“But?” Bruce prompts.<br/>
<br/>
Tim zeroes in on his matching cut strings, cornflower blue and just barely translucent. “What if I forget about them? Not all the way, but...enough.” It’s clear what he’s referring to.<br/>
<br/>
“You won’t. They’re your parents.”<br/>
<br/>
“So are you.” Tim immediately wants to take it back when shock and a little bit of hurt flicker across Bruce’s face.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s—I’m not trying to <em>replace </em>your mom and dad, Tim. I never wanted to do that.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know you don’t. And I’m <em>glad </em>I have you in my life. I just...I can’t stop wondering about what they would think if they saw me now. Would they hate me for moving on and leaving them behind?”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course they wouldn’t. Your parents, for all their eccentricities—”<br/>
<br/>
“They didn’t love me, if that’s what you’re going to say.” Tim skewers a shrimp right through the middle. “Neither of them did. And I’m not—I’m not exaggerating for drama or trying to make you feel sorry for me. It’s just the truth. My parents didn’t love me. Not any more than they’d love a pet fish. Not enough for it to <em>mean</em> anything. My dad tried to be better at the end, but by that time it was too late.”<br/>
<br/>
Part of him expects Bruce to refute him, tell Tim that it’s not true, that his parents loved him but were simply bad at showing it. All of that bullshit so many adults try to placate angsty children with. Instead Bruce waits patiently for Tim to go on.<br/>
<br/>
Tim pops the shrimp into his mouth, hoping it will rid him of the lump in his throat. It doesn’t. “I loved them my whole life, but they never even tried to do the same. I did everything I was supposed to. I was quiet, I got good grades, I never complained when they started to forget birthdays and leave on trips without telling me. Nothing changed, so I figured it was my fault all along and I just wasn’t good enough. Love was supposed to be earned, and I hadn’t earned it.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim can’t tell if the carefully-masked anger in Bruce’s eyes is directed at Tim for saying those words or at his parents for making him feel that way. “You know that’s not true, right? You <em>are </em>good enough. You’re so good, Tim.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s string hums at the praise. “I know that <em>now. </em>But back then, all I wanted was to please them and when it didn’t work, I started to resent them for not loving me. I’d think to myself, ‘One day. One day I’m going to stop caring, and <em>then </em>they’ll regret it.’ And I think—” Fuck, when did he get so weepy? Tim blinks back the sting in his eyes. “I think that’s what’s happening.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you think that makes you a bad person?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim’s eyebrows knit. “Of course it does. My parents are <em>dead, </em>Bruce. One of them was killed because of me, and I hardly even think about them anymore. My strings are fading more every day and I don’t want it to happen, but whenever I try to fix it, the feelings are—they aren’t <em>there.” </em><br/>
<br/>
It sounds even worse now that he hears it out loud. Tim has spent his whole life trying to earn love, and now his mom and dad’s threads are getting lighter every day. What a hypocrite.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce looks like he wants to say something, but he bites his cheek. “I don’t want you to think I’m biased.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim waves his head in a “go right ahead” gesture. “You might as well say it anyway. Can’t make it worse than it already is.”<br/>
<br/>
“Okay. You really want to know what I think?” Tim nods. “I think that life is meant for the living. And the same applies for love, but that doesn’t mean you should forget about your parents altogether. I’m sure if they could see you now, they would be relieved.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim snorts. “Yeah. Relieved that I’m finally someone else’s problem.” He picks out a rogue piece of broccoli and drops it into Bruce’s carton.<br/>
<br/>
“Relieved to know that you’re <em>okay. </em>That someone else is loving you and taking care of you when they can’t. You’ll never forget your parents completely. They’ll always be a part of you, like it or not. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to keep living for yourself.”<br/>
<br/>
“Easier said than done.”<br/>
<br/>
“It shouldn’t be. Love isn’t supposed to weigh you down, you know.”<br/>
<br/>
In that case, Tim must be fucking broken because all love <em>does </em>is weigh him down. Even the good ones take their toll.<br/>
<br/>
“So what do I do?” Tim asks. “Because everything I do lately takes me, like, a million steps backwards.”<br/>
<br/>
Bruce shrugs. “You can start by taking it one step at a time.”<br/>
<br/>
“That’s it?” Sounds like pretty half-assed advice.<br/>
<br/>
“That’s it. Trust me pal, you’re young but you’ve got the entire world on your shoulders. Take a minute to breathe.”<br/>
<br/>
Okay. One step at a time. Tim can do that.<br/>
<br/>
Bruce stands, taking his empty carton with him. “Now help me clean this stuff up, will you? Alfred will skin me alive if he finds out we had it in the house.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim decides to start with getting his GED. After all, it wouldn’t be very prudent for the CEO of Wayne Enterprises to stay a high school dropout forever.<br/>
<br/>
It’s not much. But it’s a good first step.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
“You kept it.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim looks up. He cleared the day to tidy up his room after he trashed it in a rage shortly before he jumped ship to look for Bruce all those months ago. It’s the first time he’s buckled down to fix the mess since coming back home. Naturally, Conner invited himself over to “help.” For him, that means looking through Tim’s knick-knacks and asking if he can keep whatever strikes his fancy.<br/>
<br/>
Now he’s holding up a red and green lanyard. It’s the one Conner made for Tim two years ago when he learned how to make them under Bart’s tutelage. It’s not the best lanyard ever made, awkwardly twisted and riddled with dropped stitches.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh,” Tim says stupidly. “Yeah, I guess I did.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s pretty crappy,” Kon says with a chuckle as he puts it back in Tim’s desk drawer where he found it.<br/>
<br/>
“I like it. It has character.”<br/>
<br/>
That makes Conner smile. He flicks the top of the Superman bobblehead sitting beside Tim’s desk lamp. “I kept something of yours too, you know.”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah. Remember that birthday I had back when we were still in Young Justice? You got me some shitty Nickelback CD that I never listened to, but I still have it in my collection.”<br/>
<br/>
“Why?” That had been a gag gift, so Tim assumed that Kon threw the thing out years ago.<br/>
<br/>
Conner shrugs. “‘Cause that’s what you do when you love someone. You keep something to remember them by.”<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<em> Loving is easy, keeping is harder. </em><br/>
<br/>
But damn if keeping isn’t worth it.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Cassie shows up at Tim’s window, scaring the bejeezus out of him.<br/>
<br/>
“Pack your stuff,” she tells him, perched on the sill. “Enough for two or three days.”<br/>
<br/>
“What?”<br/>
<br/>
“There’s not that much room left in the trunk at this point, so I’d pack light if I were you.”<br/>
<br/>
<em> “What?” </em><br/>
<br/>
Cassie laughs, clearly thrilled to be taking Tim by surprise for once. “Pack up your stuff, dude. You know, like a phone charger? Trail mix? Underwear? You get the drill.”<br/>
<br/>
“Where are we going?”<br/>
<br/>
“Road trip.” She pushes off the window sill with a wink and falls back to the ground two stories below. “Now hop to it, Boy Wonder! The engine’s running!”<br/>
<br/>
Bemused as hell but unwilling to earn the wrath of Wonder Girl, Tim does as she says.<br/>
<br/>
It turns out that Bart, Conner, and Cassie have been planning this “spontaneous” road trip for a <em> week </em> and have kept Tim in the dark about all of it until now. Cassie claims that he “needs to get out of the house” and that they’re all overdue for some “irresponsible, all-American teenage fun.”<br/>
<br/>
They’re not the best planners in the world, because there’s apparently no set destination for this trip. Not to mention the fact that it’s Conner’s turn behind the wheel when Tim slides into the backseat next to Bart, which means that there’s a solid chance they will all end up wrapped around a telephone pole by the end of this.<br/>
<br/>
And yet, Tim lets himself relax. As busy as he’s been, he forgot how good it is to hang out with his friends and unwind for a hot second. The four of them drive through the eastern countryside, their map lost somewhere in the labyrinth that is the glove box of Cassie’s beloved Jeep.<br/>
<br/>
They sing along to terrible music from Bart’s special road trip playlist, consisting of KIDZ BOP’s greatest hits and the occasional “What’s New Pussycat” which makes them all want to die a little bit. They stop at a gas station and eat greasy corn dogs for dinner topped with sour gummy worms and barbecue sauce—Bart’s special recipe.<br/>
<br/>
They get lost about five times before night descends and they stop to camp out in a patch of woods a mile from the highway, which is the perfect spot to get murdered by an ax-wielding psychopath. They spend the night sleeping under the stars because Conner forgot to bring the instructions for the tent and Cassie ends up breaking all of the poles out of frustration.<br/>
<br/>
In spite of the chaos, Tim’s strings practically sing the entire time.<br/>
<br/>
He’s missed this. Them. All of it.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
For the first time in years, he feels light again.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim has more than enough scars gifted to him by Damian and vice versa. It’s been an accepted fact of life that the third and fifth Robins don’t get along, and everyone seems to be okay with that so long as they can rally when work needs to be done. Sure, it’s not the best system in the world, but Tim was satisfied with it for a good while. Now he’s sick of the extra weight.<br/>
<br/>
So one day he offers to let Damian come pick out new chairs for Tim’s apartment if he buys the kid lunch afterward as payment. Says he could use the expertise. Damian clicks his tongue and calls Tim something along the lines of a colorblind snake. Still, he accepts.<br/>
<br/>
It’s not much, Tim knows. It’s more like an olive twig than a branch.<br/>
<br/>
But it’s a start.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
Tim thinks he might be high. The IV bag connected to his arm is his first hint. Most of his body feels floaty, which is probably a good thing considering the bandages wrapped around his abdomen from the bullet he took. Jason has been with him since he woke up, minding his business on his phone.<br/>
<br/>
Any other time Tim would be wary of Jason choosing to be near him, but the painkillers make it hard to keep a grudge. Besides, it <em> was </em> Jason’s misfire after tripping on a rock that put Tim in critical condition in the first place, so it’s only fair that he be forced to babysit Tim now.<br/>
<br/>
For once the Red Hood is without his equipment, the only remainders being his leather jacket and the three guns that Tim can’t see but that are undoubtedly smuggled somewhere on his person. Tim watches Jay’s ungloved hands as he scrolls through whatever social media he’s wasting time on.<br/>
<br/>
“What’s…” His tongue feels heavy. He swallows and tries again. “What’s Bruce’s string like?”<br/>
<br/>
Jason jerks up, looking at Tim like he just grew a second head. <em> “Excuse </em> me?”<br/>
<br/>
“His string. Is it, like...normal? Or is it messed up?”<br/>
<br/>
“What makes you think he has one at all, dipshit?”<br/>
<br/>
“I know he does.” Tim may be high as a freakin’ kite, but he makes his eyes the right kind of icy when they meet Jason’s. He’d never admit aloud that he does it on purpose, the way his calculating stare can pick a person apart. Tim used to practice it when he would try to imitate Bruce’s glare in the mirror. He still does that sometimes.<br/>
<br/>
“You really want me to pull the fucking plug, don’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
“I blamed you, y’know. When I first became Robin.”<br/>
<br/>
Jason is a steady mixture of bewildered and offended. No wonder he has to wear the helmet. Jason wears his heart on his sleeve. “I mean, that’s kind of a dick thing to do? I was dead at the time.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not, like, seriously. I didn’t <em> hate </em> you. But you were the reason they wouldn’t love me in the beginning, so.” Tim shrugs, wincing at the twinge of pain it causes.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m not apologizing, if that’s what you’re looking for. ‘s not my fault I died.”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t blame you anymore.” Tim yawns. Why’s he so drowsy? “You’re like me.”<br/>
<br/>
“How?”<br/>
<br/>
“You think you don’t deserve the love you get.”<br/>
<br/>
Jason’s perplexion only lasts a second before he’s got his wall back up. He rolls his eyes. “Go back to sleep, kid. You’re talking like a fucking druggie.”<br/>
<br/>
“M’kay.” Tim’s pretty tired now, anyway. He’s...ninety-seven percent sure that Jason was pressing the button for his IV, but that would require further evidence for a proper conclusion. He’ll work on it later.<br/>
<br/>
As his eyes close, Tim’s not sure if he imagines it when he hears: “It’s dark blue.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Tim has been in the business of mending bridges lately.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
The diner hasn’t changed a bit after all these years. There’s the same graffiti covering every flat surface and the same cigarette stubs decomposing on the unswept floor. Tim could afford a way nicer place than this, but he’s in a nostalgic mood.<br/>
<br/>
Unlike during the good old days, neither Tim nor Stephanie is in costume for this. They’ve gotten a few quizzical looks, being the only people here who don’t look like they crawled out of a crack house. Or maybe it’s because Tim’s technically a celebrity nowadays, but he’s going to stick with the non-crackhead thing.<br/>
<br/>
“How’s college going?” he asks, figuring it’s safe territory as he picks at his salad.<br/>
<br/>
“Finally got a handle on balancing the workload with the nightlife,” Steph says. “And it only took me three semesters to do it.” She takes a bite of her burger, then: “Is that really why you invited me here? Small talk?”<br/>
<br/>
Guess his stalling time is up. Tim straightens his shoulders. “No, actually. Things have been...weird between us. For a really long time.”<br/>
<br/>
“You think?”<br/>
<br/>
The corner of Tim’s mouth lifts. “I want to apologize. The right way, this time. Not mid-battle or while I’m trying to weasel you into helping me with something. I want to make things right between us, once and for all. No loose ends.”<br/>
<br/>
Steph arches an eyebrow. “That’s very adult-y of you. What brought this on?”<br/>
<br/>
“You could call it character development.” That gets a chuckle out of her. “But I really am sorry for the way I’ve treated you these past couple of years. I pinned my own insecurities on you, so worried that you would screw up or get hurt when I should have treated you like a hero. I just want things to be right between us again.”<br/>
<br/>
“Not surprised,” Steph says, which earns her a strange look. “It was only a matter of time before the Steph-withdrawal kicked in. You were bound to ask me on a date sooner or later.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim holds up a finger. “Not a date. An apologetic business meeting.”<br/>
<br/>
“Uh-huh. Sure.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m serious.”<br/>
<br/>
“I’m sure you are. And the fact that my string is on the fritz has nothing to do with it.” She wags her pinkie at him with a knowing grin. “You teenagers and your crushes.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim can feel his face heat with a blush. “You’re still a teenager too.”<br/>
<br/>
“Doesn’t matter; I’m still older than you, which makes me automatically wiser.” There it is again, her snorting laughter. Tim can’t believe how much he missed it. He could make it into a soundtrack.<br/>
<br/>
“Fine, fine,” she says after a moment, waving her hand. “I’ll stop teasing. You just blush so easily, I can’t help myself.”<br/>
<br/>
Tim rolls his eyes in feigned exasperation. “Are we cool or not? Because that speech was all I had planned for this.”<br/>
<br/>
“Hmm.” Steph taps her chin. “Not sure. I might need a milkshake while I mull it over.”<br/>
<br/>
“Done.” Tim waves over the waitress.<br/>
<br/>
“But, golly me,” Steph says with the fakest gasp in the world. “I can only afford one of ‘em. If <em> only </em> there was a groveling boy around to help me finish it.”<br/>
<br/>
“That makes no sense. And I’m paying.”<br/>
<br/>
“Do you want forgiveness or not?”<br/>
<br/>
Tim sighs. “Fine, order whatever you want.” But Tim couldn’t hide his smile if he tried.<br/>
<br/>
Steph turns to the waitress. “Can I get a strawberry milkshake with two straws? Extra whipped cream and extra, <em> extra </em> sprinkles.” She winks at Tim, which makes his heart flutter.<br/>
<br/>
Even after all these years, she’s still sunshine.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Tim sits up in bed one night, the dim glow from his soul strings casting the room in a colored halo. Sometimes when he sees them, he thinks back on his life and can’t believe he made it this far. Other times he’s sure it must be a joke because there’s no <em> way </em> one person can be this content.<br/>
<br/>
His threads hum, as if trying to prove the point. There’s Bruce’s. Mom and Dad’s. Dick, Alfred, Cass—a spectrum of blues, some light and some so deep they’re almost denim. Steph’s bright string loops around his pinkie, sparkling like pink lemonade. There are Bart and Cassie’s green ones, matched with Conner’s swirl of pink and green. All veins from Tim’s heart, reaching out for the people he loves.<br/>
<br/>
He knows he’s come far. He’s gone from a boy who cared too much, to a boy who couldn’t care at all, to...Tim doesn’t really know where he stands now. But he feels okay. And that’s enough.<br/>
<br/>
His calendar on the wall is marked up with gel pens of all shades: coffee with Dick tomorrow, a library visit with Steph on Tuesday, carnival with Bart, patrol with Cass. Notifications alight Tim’s phone on the nightstand with texts from Conner, asking what movie he wants to see on Saturday. Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is here, all in their own ways. There’s a gray and purple pride sticker on Tim’s laptop and he doesn’t feel ashamed about it anymore.<br/>
<br/>
Tim can remember the early days, back when he thought that love was something to be <em> earned, </em> not given. When he thought that only lucky people get to have a string connection that’s requited on both sides. Now Tim has more love than he knows what to do with, and it feels <em> good. </em><br/>
<br/>
There’s no heartbreak. No conditions. No loss.<br/>
<br/>
He’s light again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>@ anyone who secretly has a sexy red string for me tell me and I'll marry you in vegas right now ok I've got the marriage certificate all set up let's go—</p><p>
  <a href="http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/">Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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